


Batjokes Week Ficlets

by Sapphy, SapphyWatchesYouSleep (Sapphy)



Series: Tumblr Fics [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman vs Dracula, Batman: Arkham Asylum (Video Games), Crisis on Two Earths, The Flashpoint Paradox
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood Drinking, Body Horror, Bondage, Cameras, Cannibalism, Character Turned Into Vampire, Crisis on Two Earths - Freeform, Dubious Consent, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Flashpoint (DCU), Gen, Gore, Hallucinations, Hallucinogens, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Missing Scene, Mutilation, Romance, Scars, Strip Tease, Torture, What Deadlines?, Wordcount: 100-1.000, deadlines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/Sapphy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/SapphyWatchesYouSleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven ficlets written for Batjokes week over on tumblr. Each fic takes place in a different 'verse, and is written to a different prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strait-talker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: All-tied up
> 
> Pre New-52 Earth 1

He doesn’t like strait-jackets. Never has. They’re uncomfortable, and awkward to get out of, and they don’t show off his girlish figure to its best advantage.

On the other hand, if he looks half as hot in one as Batsy does… well, he’s maybe going to have to change his opinion on them. Because damn!

Normally he’d have gone for ropes, he does love seeing Batsy straining against some nice tight ropes, but he’d been taken unawares, and the jacket was the only thing he’d had to hand. Thank goodness he’d had a hostage is all he can say, no way he’d ever have managed to get it onto the Bat by himself. And anyway, watching Batsy pull on the jacket had been like watching the world’s best strip tease.

He’d had to get rid of the hostage in order to properly fasten the sleeves of the jacket, but that’s okay, because while Joker kinda likes performing to an audience, he gets the impression Batsy doesn’t, and since Batsy’s dressing up all sexy for him, it seems only decent that he make some concessions.

The trouble is, now that’s he’s got Batman exactly where he wants him, he doesn’t know where to start. The jacket doesn’t do anything to restrain Batsy’s legs, as he’d been forcefully reminded while fastening his arms, so dropping to his knees and burying his face in Batsy’s crotch is out. Too needy, anyway. Just because he’s desperate is no reason to give up on his dignity. Unfortunately, that also rules out getting all up close and personal and just rubbing off on one of those muscular thighs. Plus these are new trousers.

He lets himself imagine bending Batsy over something (that dumpster at the other end of the alley maybe) and forcing his way in, but he knows he won’t. One day, maybe, but if he’s learnt one thing from Harley, it’s that that’s the kind of thing you have work up to in a relationship. A bit of GBH, some mental torture, that’s all fine in the early days, but you’ve got to put off the actual sexual violence until you know they’re good and hooked.

That really only leaves him with one option.

He leans in close, catching Batsy’s legs between his own to hold them still, and pressing his body against Batsy’s in all the places that matters, shivering when Batsy bucks and writhes under him, trying to get free.

It’s the work of a moment to push his hand into Batsy’s pantyhose (or whatever he calls those). He’s not hard, not yet, but that’s okay, because Joker is, and he’s always been good with his hands.

It takes a bit of coaxing, and a whole lot of struggling, before Batsy finally starts responding. That feeling, the power and control of having and unwilling Batman swelling in hand, is the best thing he’s ever felt. He can hardly keep from shaking from the sheer exhilaration of it. He’s been dreaming of this moment for so long that it almost doesn’t feel real, doesn’t seem possible. But knows how Batman smells, the pattern of his breathing, the exact texture of his suit against Joker’s hand. This is real.

“Don’t do this,” Batsy groans. “Joker, don’t…”

Ooooooh, begging. “You can keep talking Batsy,” he says, leaning in close and licking a stripe up Batsy’s face. “That’s reeeeaaally working for me, darling.”

Predictably, Batsy clams up tighter than a nun’s snatch, bites his lip to keep from making a sound, but he can’t keep in his heaving breaths in, or keep his legs from shuddering. It’s just as good as any words, better even, because it means he’s distracted enough by the quick slip-slide of Joker hand that he doesn’t lash out when Joker presses his crotch against Batsy’s tense thigh and grinds down, letting out a groan of relief at finally, _finally_ getting some pressure where he needs it.

He speeds his hand up as a reward, twists his wrist and moans out loud at the catch in Batsy’s breath.

He manages to twist his head around enough to get his mouth on Batsy’s neck, licks up the salt-sweet taste of his sweat, sucks until he can taste Batsy’s blood, just under the surface. He couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to, he sinks in his teeth, tastes blood for real, and skin, and hears the gasp-moan Batsy makes when he comes, his hot semen spurting across Joker’s hand.

“Oh, baby,” Joker gasps out, caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan. “Oh, darling…”

He does laugh, a great joyful explosion of sound, when Batsy rips his arms free, shoving Joker back against the wall so hard he hears the satin back of his vest tear. Batsy scrambles away, tugging the jacket over his head and throwing it away. He stops in the mouth of the alley, looking back, grapnel raised.

“You’d freed your arms before I got my hands down your trousers,” Joker says grinning. “You _wanted_ me to do that! Oh darling, you only had to ask.”

Batsy looks away and Joker grins, and raises his damp gloved hand to his face, sniffing the thick male scent of Batsy’s arousal, and then sucking one of his fingers into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut at the taste.

When he opens his eyes, Batsy’s gone. Joker laughs as he finishes himself off, moaning Batsy’s name as he comes.

Next time, he thinks he might let Batsy fuck him. If he’s very good.


	2. Women are from venus, Supervillains are from Mars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Joker x Batarang
> 
> Crisis on Two Earths, Earth 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there aren't actually any Batarangs in this... See, in Crisis on Two Earths, Owlman has these little cameras, mounted on remote control Batarangs. So my first thought, obviously, was Jester as a cam-boy. It was only once I started writing that I realised that they couldn't be called Batarangs, because that's not an owl pun, and that I don't know what they're actually called. But by then I'd decided I liked this ficlet, so here it is anyway, completely free from anything related to the prompt.
> 
> Also, for anyone who doesn't know, this is set on Earth Two, where Bruce is not around, but his big brother Thomas is the Supervillain Owlman who's dating Superwoman (evil wonderwoman) and whose nemesis is the heroic Jokester or Jester, depending on which writer you believe. Personally, I like Jester more. Jester has a pet monkey, called Harley.

There are two things in the world that Thomas Wayne Jr doesn’t understand. Women, and Superheroes.

Actually that’s not true. Generally speaking he understands women just fine, they’re just people. They want what everyone else wants – for him to not kill them. That’s a pretty simple world view to grasp. And Superheroes aren’t so hard. Take Luthor, for example. Clever enough to know he’s not a good man, delusional enough to want to pretend otherwise. Locked in his endless cycle of heroics and defeat because if he ever stops, he’ll have to actually face himself. Again, not so complicated really.

No, when he says he doesn’t understand women and superheroes, what he really means is _his_ woman, and _his_ superhero.

Mostly, when the fact that he can’t begin to understand Superwoman’s petty twisted little mind starts to bother him, he talks to Power Ring. Not that Power Ring actually gives anything like good advice, but he’s such a misogynistic dinosaur that he makes Owlman feel better about himself, because he might not know what Superwoman wants, but at least he doesn’t think her place is in the kitchen. (She’s a terrible cook, the worst Thomas has ever encountered. He thinks she probably does it on purpose, but he’s not certain.)

Jester he mostly talks to Red Arrow about, when he can’t avoid talking about him at all. He doesn’t like opening up about the clown, but sometimes he needs to say things out loud, and for some reason Superwoman gets angry when he tries to talk to her about it. Arrow is cheerful, and surprisingly kind for a supervillain, and most importantly, fully aware that Owlman could kill him without breaking a sweat. He makes a good confidante.

“I know he doesn’t know the cameras are there,” Owlman says mournfully, watching the feed from the drone-cameras (he needs to think of a name for them, but owl-based names are fairly hard to think up). “There is no way he could possibly know they’re there. They’re silent, they keep their distance. I know he’s never seen them!” Arrow makes a sympathetic noise beside him. “And yet…”

He flicks up yesterday’s feed. There’s Jester, sitting in the abandoned warehouse he’s been using as a base (Superwoman keeps asking why he doesn’t just kill him, if he knows where the clown is hiding. Sometimes, Thomas thinks he really doesn’t understand her at all) playing with that ridiculous monkey of his. It’s wearing a waistcoat, and a tiny party hat, held on with string. One of the great mysteries about Jester is that Owlman has never yet seen him dress the horrid thing. He’s beginning to wonder if he’s trained it to dress itself.

“Did you know,” the robotic voice of the computer’s lip-reading software says (he has software that makes it sound like the Jester, but Superwoman had threatened to leave for good if she ever caught him using it again. He will never understand women.) “Owls swallow their prey whole. And then they spit out all the bits that they can’t digest afterwards.”

The monkey nods, like it’s actually listening, like it actually did know.

“But I was thinking,” Jester continues, and it doesn’t matter that it’s the computer speaking, in his mind, Owlman hears that familiar voice, “that our poor old Owly-wowly probably has a bit of a delicate digestion, after all the times we’ve poisoned him.” Thomas hates it when Jester calls him Owly-wowly, but he can’t find a way to make him stop. Johnny had called him that once, and hadn’t been quick enough to avoid a bullet in the leg that had slowed him down for weeks. “So I was thinking, just to be nice, we should probably start fighting the Owl naked. What do you think?”

On the screen, the monkey removes its waistcoat. Jester looks up, staring straight into the camera, and says very clearly, obviously enunciating the world carefully, to make them easy to lip-read. “We wouldn’t want to make things hard for him.”

And then he takes off his trousers.

“You see?” Thomas complains, as Arrow makes disgusted noises next to him. “He can’t know the camera is there, and yet…”

“And yet he’s doing a strip tease for you,” Arrow says, with a kind of fascinated horror. “And he is really bendy.”

Camouflage tech, Thomas thinks, as he watches Jester prove just how very flexible he is. Maybe he should try camouflage tech.


	3. Sweet Dreams are Made of These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Intensive Therapy
> 
> Nolan!verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in this chapter for mild body-horror and hallucinations

Joker hasn’t know Scarecrow very long, but even so, he likes him. He’s quiet, and studious, and almost totally deranged. So many screws loose it’s a wonder his whole face hasn’t fallen off. He’s also, unlike everyone else is this crazy town, got a sense of humour. Doctor Crane does it all, as those crazy kids with their hashtags and their meth would say, for the lulz.

Really, he’s quite a pleasant room-mate. If he wasn’t, Joker would have kicked him out and found a new hide-out weeks ago, custom-made toxins or no custom made toxins. 

“Okay,” Crane says, smiling and flicking a needle, like the doctor at the start of every body-horror movie ever. “I would ask if you’re ready, but that would be superfluous, seeing as I’m going to inject you whether you’re ready or not.”

Joker grins. He likes people who know their own minds. “Go right ahead Doc.”

Crane’s obviously done this lots, Joker barely even feels the needle going in, even as he watches it. There’s something… fascinatingly _visceral_ , about watching the needle slide under his skin, and Crane makes a noise that’s half irritated, half amused, when Joker can’t keep still, and gives a little wiggle of excitement.

In theory, he’s doing a favour for Crane, giving him someone to test his new fear toxin on who’ll be just resistant enough to give him an accurate account of their experiences without actually being immune. In exchange, Crane’s promised to make him something extra specially poisonous, just for him. Honestly, Joker would probably have volunteered for this anyway, just because it sounds fun, but he doesn’t tell Crane that. If people want to pay him to let them experiment on him, well, who is he to complain?

“You should begin to feel the first effects any second now,” Crane says, and his voice sounds oddly distant, like he’s far away or under water. “Increased heart beat, adrenal response, a change in perception. The hallucinations will start in a couple of minutes. I like to build up to things, don’t you?”

“Nothing like a little… anticipation, Doc,” Joker agrees, lifting his hand and examining in minutely. His skin looks different, paler, and his fingers seem to be elongating. He wonders if they’ll stay that way when the serum wears off. His gloves won’t fit.

“Hey Doc, when all this is over, will you take me shopping?” Joker asks. His whole body is changing shape, elongating and growing thinner, so his feet are much further away now than they used to be, but oddly, his trousers still reach all the way to his shoes, like they’re stretching too. “I think these trousers might have stretched in the wash.”

“No,” Crane says, scribbling notes on the clipboard he’s holding. “I despise shopping.”

“Really?” Joker turns to look at him, and finds he’s put on his mask. It’s a good mask, Joker’s always said so, and it looks even more intimidating when the world around it is stretching and shrinking like he’s walking through a hall of funhouse mirrors. “I loooove shopping. Specially for shoes. You like shoes Doc?”

“I am entirely indifferent to shoes,” Crane says haughtily, but Joker thinks he sounds amused. “But then, I don’t have your penchant for flashy dressing.”

Joker grins, and tries to blush, but he doesn’t seem to have any blood anymore, his skin paper white. “Flatterer. Have you seen my blood? I seem to have, uh, misplaced it. Coulda sworn I had it a minute ago!”

“I see the hallucinations are starting,” Crane says, scribbling furiously. Joker wonders if he’s actually writing anything, or if he’s really just scribbling.

“You know, that’s really interesting,” Joker says, peering round the room. “Don’t think I’ve ever hallucinated before. Is it always this exciting? Maybe I should get some of this fear gas of yours to go. You know, for next time I’m bored.”

He’s found his blood at last. It’s dripping down the walls in a steady never-ending stream. He wonders how come it doesn’t run out. Humans don’t have that much blood. You need lots to fill a bathtub. Maybe there’s a pump, recycling it, like in a fountain.

“I’ve read testimonials from at least two of your psychiatrists claiming that you hallucinate almost constantly,” Crane says mildly. He doesn’t look very scary, even with a mask on, just standing there taking notes, occasionally nodding to himself. It’s almost comforting.

“But the thing is, Doc… The thing is…” There’s movement, up by the ceiling, some dark shape fluttering just in the corner of his eye.

“The thing, Joker?”

“Oh, yeah. The thing is… how’s a man supposed to know when he’s hallucinating? I mean, we’ve got the evidence of our own eyes to go on, right? If we can’t trust that, what can we trust?”

“That,” Doctor Crane says, straightening up, “Is exactly the question I am attempting to answer with my research. How do we know what’s real.”

“Now that’s just not true,” Joker corrects him. “You’re just trying to scare people, because you think it’s fun.”

“That too,” Crane concedes. “Tell me what you’re seeing right now?”

“There’s a girl, in the corner,” Joker says, waving a hand vaguely to indicate her. “All dressed up in red and black, like a harlequin, with a hat with bells on.”

“What’s she doing?”

“What? Oh nothing. She’s dead. Looks like she’s been dead a while, too. Face all eaten away by rats. You know how bodies get when you leave them someplace and forget to get rid of them? Yeah, she looks like that. Starting to go kinda puffy too. And maggoty.”

“Does that scare you?”

Joker laughs. “You, Doc, are a very funny man. It’s what I like about you. Do I look, like the kind of man who’s scared of corpses to you? Huh? Nah, she’s not bothering me at all.”

“Interesting. Anything else you’re seeing?”

“Uh, well, there is something on the ceiling. Something black.”

“A bat?” Scarecrow asks, sounding excited.

“Yeah, yeah, I think it is. A big one. And…” Joker stops talking as the bat drops, holding his breath as the body plummets towards him, growing bigger and bigger all the time. It lands in front of him, and pulls itself up onto its hind feet, the way bats never do, and stares at him with tiny red eyes.

“I don’t think it’s a normal bat,” Joker says. “It’s kinda, uh, big. And angry.”

“And how do you feel about this bat?”

“Well, that’s a good question. My hearts beating awful fast. And my palms are sweating. But then, that could be fear, or it could be excitement. You ever do any research into why that is? I have. Held a guy at gunpoint and gave him a lapdance, and you know? It was impossible to tell whether he was scared or excited.”

“Which do you think you are then?” Crane asks, ignoring Joker’s question, which is really rather rude. But maybe no-one’s ever got excited over the poor Doc before.

“You’ve got pretty eyes,” Joker tells him, just in case. He doesn’t like to see his friends sad.

“What’s the bat doing now?”

“Kinda… growing. Stretching. Nearly as tall as you now Doc, and standing up like a man. I’m pretty sure Bats aren’t meant to do that. Are they?”

“No. Does the Bat wish you harm?”

“Well, that’s a good question. It does look pretty angry. And hungry. Do bats eat people? And what about six foot tall man-bats with glowing eyes? Do they eat people? I never saw any of them in any nature documentary. Maybe I should write to the cable guys and complain.”

“Is the bat going to eat you?” Crane sounds irritatingly calm, like he doesn’t care at all that TV has been misleading people, or that Joker’s about to get eaten. “Will it kill you first?”

“No,” Joker tells him. “And I think it’s going to eat me raw. Maybe make a tartar. You know tartar has raw egg in it? And people pay money for that stuff. I tell ya, rich people are crazy. That’s why I never keep money. Makes you… soft in the head. Makes you do crazy things.”

“Is this truly just a bat?” Scarecrow asks. Joker’s starting to get pretty annoyed with the way Crane just ignores everything he says. “Or is it, perhaps, the Batman?”

“Oh hey,” Joker says, delighted, “You’re right. It _is_ the Batman. Well that’s much better. Course, he’s still going to eat me, but he smells much better than the giant Bat. Expensive soap, and sweat, and repression.”

“But he’s still going to eat you?”

“Oh yeah, he’s got a knife. I think it’s one of mine. And he’s…” Joker trails off into a scream as the Batman who isn’t the Batman cuts a chunk of the flesh away from his arm. It’s not real, he knows it’s not real, but he can feel it, and see it, and smell the blood.

“Are you alright?” Crane asks. “What is happening.”

“Told you,” Joker pants. “He’s going to eat me. Carve me up like a turkey and serve me up for dinner.” He holds out his bleeding arm. “You want a slice?”

“No, thank you. Does it hurt?”

“Oh yeah, like you wouldn’t believe Doc. Kinda like that time I got my arm stuck in the blades on a combine harvester. Or was that someone else? Either way, that’s what it hurts like.”

“And the Bat is eating your flesh?”

“Oh yeah, he’s doing it now, blood all dripping down his chin.”

“Your physical reaction at this point is… a typical.”

Joker looks down at himself. “You mean the way I’ve gone all kinda stretched?” he asks.

“I mean the fact that you are getting hard, Joker.”

“Oh, that. That’s not atypical, that’s how I always react to the Bat. You sure you don’t want a slice?”

“No, thank you. I think that that is sufficient for today. I’m going to inject you with the anti-venom now.”

“Aw, come on Doc. Don’t be a spoil sport. Five more minutes. Pleeeeeease?”

Joker’s sure he sees the mask smile. “Just five more minutes,” Scarecrow agrees.

Joker grins, and settles back in the chair. Batsy’s started on his left leg now, and it hurts worse than anything he’s ever felt. He has got to get him some of this fear gas.


	4. It's the Wrong Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Marked/Scarred
> 
> Flashpoint Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Bing Crosby's 'It's All Right With Me':
> 
> It's the wrong song with the wrong style  
> Though your smile is lovely, it's the wrong smile  
> It's not her smile but such a lovely smile  
> That it's alright with me

The wounds are healing, but not quickly, or cleanly. Martha won’t stop picking at them, peeling away the scabs every time they form, and steadfastly refusing his orders that she rest her mouth while it heals. The scars that are starting to form are thick and ropey, tugging her mouth into a grimace even when she’s sleeping.

He tries to avoid seeing her. He hates himself for doing it, but the sight of her, her beautiful face so mutilated, the knowledge that it’s his fault, is too much to bear. He tells himself it’s better this way, that seeing him will only awaken painful memories, that it was spending time with him in the first place that made her do it, but he’s never been very good at lying to himself.

The truth is, he can’t bear to look at her anymore.

She’s got two nurses who work shifts, making sure there’s always someone on call. Martha hates them, insists they hate her, that they say and do terrible things to her. Thomas had believed her the first time, dismissed two women without references, but then she’d same the same about the next ones, and the next ones.

The only person she tolerates anymore is her grief counsellor, a pretty blonde girl who comes every day. They sit secluded together for hours, and Thomas considers firing her more than once when he sees how the talking has reopened the wounds at the corners of her mouth, but Martha seems calmer when she’s gone, less manic.

Thomas spends his time in his study now, desperately hunting down any possible lead on the thug who’d killed Bruce, who’d destroyed the woman he loved. The walls are covered with newspaper clippings, photographs of the crime scene, and copies of police documents. There’s pictures too of Bruce’s body, and Martha’s face, a constant reminder of what needs doing.

He’s appointed a new head of R&D at Wayne Industries, instructed the board that the companies new focus should be defense tech, police and military contracts. He lets them think it’s because he wants to keep what happened to him from happening to anyone else. No one needs to know that he’s been helping himself to prototypes, slowly building up a stockpile of high-tech weapons and armour.

Martha’s been shopping too, or rather, her counsellor has been shopping for her. She always used to be so elegant, the society papers always eager to interview her about her style, but now she wears men’s clothes, in horrifically vivid colours, her soft curves hidden under layers of cloth. The clothes coupled with the scars means almost the only feminine thing about her these days is her ubiquitous red lipstick, which she smears across her mouth like finger paint, so there’s always some lingering in the knotted ridges of scar tissue.

Sometimes Thomas wonders why he’s still trying to save her. He tries to image her recovering, imagines her curling up beside him in bed, imagines kissing her, and it turns his stomach.

The woman he loved is dead, as dead as Bruce. What they’re in now is a holding pattern as he desperately tries to prolong the inevitable, but he knows it wont be long now. There’s a suit of armour waiting for him in the caves under the house, sleek and black and tempting. The only thing keeping him from putting it on is the knowledge that once he does, it’s all over. Martha, and everything else from his old life, is lost to him. All the same, when he looks at his wife’s once beautiful face now fixed in a hideous rictus grin, he knows it won’t be long.


	5. May the Odds Be Ever in Your Favour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: He loves me, he loves me not
> 
> New 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: gore, torture

The man in the chair doesn’t look like his Bat, not really, but his height is right, and his build as close as anyone can get without spending every night fighting super-criminals. His eyes are screwed shut under the make-shift mask Joker’s put on him, but open they’re blue, not vivid enough but close. The chin is too square, the lips too narrow, the nose too straight, but he’ll do. Joker can’t have the real thing, not right now, so he’ll make do.

The man’s still conscious, but Joker’s pretty sure he wishes he wasn’t. He’d passed out earlier, when he’d first seen the raw ruin of what used to be Joker’s face, which had been gratifying. Joker doesn’t care anyone thinks of him, not even Batman, not really, but it’s satisfying to be able to get a rise out of people without the need to do anything.

He’s holding a pair of pliers in one hand, dear little jewellery pliers with sharp pointed ends to them. They make a shhhhhh noise when he opens them, and a very satisfying click when he lets them snap closed again. He doesn’t remember where he’d got them, or what he’d originally wanted them for, but since he’s already holding them, and since he can think of all sorts of deliciously funny things to do with them, he figures he might as well hang on to them. He’s got a pair of bolt cutters too, tucked into the pocket of his overalls, but they’re for later.

“I’ve been feeling a bit unloved recently,” he tells the not-Bat. “I know it’s not your fault, all those little ticks hanging onto you, sucking your blood, distracting you and making you weak, but all the same… It’s getting me down! And what good is a clown with a frown? Hey, wadda you know? That rhymed!”

“Let me go,” the Not-Bat squeals. His voice really is annoying. He’s not even _trying_ to sound like Batsy. Next time Joker needs to be fussier when picking Bat-stand-ins.  
“If you’re not going to make an effort, I’m going to have to gag you,” he tells the Not-Bat sternly.

“Please!” Not-Bat whines. “Oh God, don’t hurt me! _Please_!”

“Well, since you’re so keen…” Joker’s an easy going kind of guy, always willing to go that extra mile to make other people happy, so he rummages in his pockets (all sorts of exciting things in his pockets these days, never know what you might find) until he finds an oily rag and a roll of duct-tape.

He has to get the Not-Bat in a headlock to get the rag in his mouth, which is ridiculous when the fool had _asked_ for this! But if he’s learnt one thing in his career as a super-villain, it’s that almost all problems can be solved with enough duct-tape. Or acid. Or both. By the time he’s wrapped the entire roll around Not-Bat’s head, the guy’s mostly stopped struggling.

“Theeeere!” Joker says, pleased with his work. “All nice and quiet. Now you’re settled in, we’re going to play a game. I call it, does Batsy love me?”

He’s never actually done this before, but he watched Penguin do it once, at it really didn’t look very hard.

It takes a couple of tries to get a good grip on the Not-Bat’s thumbnail with the pliers, and the nail shatters on the second attempt. The skin pulls and tears as he rips away the two pieces of the split nail. Not-Bat screams in a really very gratifying way. Not as gratifying as if it had been his darling Batsy, but satisfying enough that he does it again.

The second nail comes away whole, and Joker can’t hold back the giggles as he chants, “loves me not!”

Fingernails make a distinctive noise when you rip them up, a sort of shwerp noise. Not-Bat makes these desperate sort of gurgling noises, so that each nail goes shhhhhh click swerp argh. It makes a good soundtrack to his chant of ‘loves me, loves me not’.

Not-Bat passes out around the time Joker gets to the pinky on his first hand. It means Joker has to speed up, compensating for the lack of the ‘argh’ in his backing track, but that’s okay, because he’s got the hang of this now.

_Shhhhhh click shwerp_ ‘He loves me’

_Shhhhhh click shwerp_ ‘He loves me not’

_Shhhhhh click shwerp _‘He loves me’__

__Only now the Not-Bat’s only got one finger left, and that won’t do at all. But it’s okay, because he’s not like Two-Face. He can always twist the odds in his own favour._ _

__He picks up the bolt clippers, and carefully opens the blades over Not-Bat’s final pinky. Blood drips onto the blades from the ruins of his other fingers, and Joker grins. “He looooves me!”_ _


	6. And a Very Fine Fiddle...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The King and his Jester
> 
> Arkham video games verse

Joker sat on the roof of the medical building and surveyed his kingdom. It wasn’t much of one, really, and his subjects were all head-cases, but it was his. He wouldn’t be able to keep it of course, but then he didn’t really want to. All things (except his darling of course) were impermanent, and that was just the way he liked them. It kept things interesting.

But now, for however brief a time, he was a king, ruler of his own screwy kingdom, master of all he surveys. And it's almost perfect.

He just needs some entertainment.

Not that that will be a problem, his one and only never fails to accept his Invitations, Joker makes sure of that.

He's got boys out there now, setting up all sorts of deliciously fun games, and watching Batsy jump through the hoops like his very own performing rodent is going to be simply scrumptious.

The only thing he hasn't decided yet (apart from what shoes to wear) is how this particular game is going to end.

It all depends on who Batsy is to him tonight. Is he going to be the lost sheep, in need of guidance, or arch-nemesis needing to be foiled? The old flame or the new lover? Wife or mistress, friend or foe? It's one of those questions that's impossible to answer until suddenly it isn't and the answers all laid out in front of him like a fresh corpse. If he's the king of this sad little kingdom, then obviously Batman is his fool, his jester, his joculator. His clown.

And only a madman would kill his own clown.

He maybe should have been a little more sparing with the venom if he's going for non-lethal force, it would be so disappointing if some no-name thug managed to take down Batman when Joker still hasn't managed it.

He's probably got nothing to worry about. Batsy's taken on Croc and Bane and lived to tell the tale. A few five dollar mooks with roid rage are hardly going to pose much of a threat. They'll just slow him down, give Harley time to get everything ready in his palace.

There's things to do, a million and one of them, but for now, Joker decides, he's just going to sit here and enjoy his kingdom and think about what fun he's going to have with his clown later.


	7. Till Death Do Us Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: You'll always have me to dance with
> 
> The Batman vs Dracula

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who haven't seen it, you can witness the magnificence of Vampire!Joker [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIzcIKEAB9w)
> 
> Credit also goes to lovelyvampyr over on tumblr, who sent me the prompt that finally persuaded me to get my arse in gear and finish this.

Batman tastes of darkness and bitter regret and expensive wine. It’s the most beautiful thing Joker’s ever tasted, the only thing he ever wants to taste again.

The blood was cold, taken from a bag rather than a vein, but it was still Batsy, and it sings in Joker’s veins, like being filled with pure light, or taking every happy pill in the world all at once. It’s glorious and unimaginably good, and Joker is harder than he’s ever been in his life.

He’s always desired Batman, has always watches him, but now he can smell him too, soap and sweat and flesh, and taste him on the air, and hear his heart pumping away, filling that delectable body up with delicious blood.

Joker has iron self control, except when he doesn't, and can resist any temptation, except when he can't. And now is one of the latter times. He wants, with a fierceness he’s never known before, consumed with desire, unable to think of anything else.

“Baaatsy,” he calls, pressed himself up against the bars of his cell. The dark figure beside the computers doesn’t move. “Baaaaaaaaaatsy. I’m still hungry Batsy.”

“You drank about six people’s worth of blood at the bank, Joker,” Batsy says sharply. 

“But that wasn’t yours. I’m not hungry for blood, I’m hungry for you.”

That finally gets Batman’s attention. “Hungry for me. Really? That’s the line you’re going with.”

Joker grins, delighted at finally getting Batman’s attention. “You’d rather something a little more poetic? Shall I tell you that every beat of your heart is torture, reminding me of what I can’t have? That the smell of your skin is unbearably sweet? That I even though you taste like ambrosia I wish you were a Vampire too, so that we could be together always?”

“Sweet nothings Joker, really? Have those ever worked?”

“Well what other choice do I have? You’re out there, I’m in here. You’re busy with your science, I’m going mad with desire.”

“You’re already mad, Joker.”

“Not like this. You don’t understand, Batsy, I need you. Please, I’ll do anything, I just need to taste you. Just a teensy taste. I wont even bite if you don’t want me too. Just a lick. Please, Batsy, I _need_ you.”

“Believe it or not Joker, I’m trying to find a way to help you.”

“You can help me but getting your ass over here and opening up a vein. A capillary even. Anything.”

“Look, Joker, I’m not going to become a vampire. You know that.”

“Well I guess you taste better like this.”

“No, you don’t understand. You’re a vampire, I’m a human. You’re never going to die.”

Joker paused, letting Batman’s words sink in. “You mean I’d… be without you?”

“An eternity without me Joker.”

Joker shudders. “Alright, you got me. That sounds hellish. So you’re going to cure me? So we can spend the rest of our lives together?”

“Something like that Joker.”

“Okay. Can I have some more blood first? I want to remember the taste when this is over.”

“Tell you what Joker, if I cure you, then you can have more blood if you still want it.”

Joker laughs, high and manic. “It’s cute how you think I didn’t want to drink your blood before I was a vampire. I’ve always wanted you Batsy. I want you inside me, inside my veins, so we’ll be together always.”

“That’s sweet, Joker.” Batman’s tone is sarcastic, but Joker ignores it.

“I’m going to fill up on you, soak in you, so our dance can go on forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, find me on tumblr at gluttonforpunsihment.
> 
> Kudos is awesome, but comments are pure win


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